Category: Writing

On my visit to my friend’s office who moved overseas, I found one of my favorite photographs of the Adriatic sea on the wall that I had taken and printed on the plexiglass for her before. I forgot about it. Totally forgot.

I forgot many things. I miss those things that start to disappear from my brain. I want to run and catch them and put them in the deep drawer of my memory cabinet, labeled “shouldn’t forget”, but the things are fleeting at the speed I can’t keep up. The only thing I do is that I really miss them without knowing what I have lost. Really really miss them…

Weirdly, everything felt as the past. As if she released the grip she held so tight not to lose; not to lose the pain, not to lose the beauty, not to lose the moments, not to lose a single breath.

A peace, even momentary it may be, landed. A chapter ended. She is not dead yet so there will be another. And she will write with the care, with the full consciousness, calm and grounded.

The outer world will shriek again. Tremble and shake. The ground stepping on will crumble under her feet. Again and again. She knows it will. She will be desperate and cry alone at night. All day. But this will come again. A piece of peace, like a slender feather lands in silence.

“The bird that would soar above the level plain of tradition and prejudice must have strong wings. It is a sad spectacle to see the weaklings bruised, exhausted, fluttering back to earth.”

– Kate Chopin, in “The Awakening” –

It must be a pity to watch an immature bird falling. The vulnerable body and the underdeveloped wings. The shattered pieces of the broken one would be impossible to be mended. It would evoke heartbreaking feelings to someones close to her. And they’ve already warned her many times. “Don’t fly until you develop your full wings. I will be very sad to watch you fall.”
But she knows that she would never be ready. She would be old and die with a remorse. Her flesh would be too dry to chew by then.

As she climbs up and up, she tells to herself. “Once is enough. Just once.”
The sun was bright. The sweat trickles down on her forehead. As she lifts her head up, the whole sky melts into her eyes on the top of the hill. The wind blows from the South and tousles her hair gently. She feels the air stretching her arms wide with her palms open.
“This will do.” She whispers to herself and spreads her wings. The delicate white fragile dream she has woven for a decade. Then, she jumps.

My pain. My suppressed pain seeped through the pores of my skin and soaked the others. Can I retrieve it? Please? If only I can take it back at whatever cost.

Frozen wheels. Tears. Melting. Pouring. Start to move. Where will you take me?

The hearts are broken. The flowers in this house are blooming. The wind is blowing. I am standing, outside in the downpour. Why do I love the sky when the storm is coming? Why do I love the roaring sound of the trees under the mean wind?

K. What are you saying? Did I hear you right?
New people. Are they the same people in disguise?